


Pity

by MoldySin (AnnieAnnProps)



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Character Study, F/F, Slow Burn, Talon!AU, but not so gentle, everything I write is a fucking character study, gentle Talon, let's be real, we'll see
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-02
Updated: 2017-04-07
Packaged: 2018-09-27 20:38:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10048166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnieAnnProps/pseuds/MoldySin
Summary: She could prevent the next Widowmaker, she could keep her from suffering what Amelie suffered.She could do so much in this moment.But in this moment.





	1. Better Dead

**Author's Note:**

> Don't quite know where I'm going with this. I got inspired by AnnaDeef over on Tumblr. Really, this all started with her reblogging "Sit with Me" and yes i like to stalk through whoever reblogs from me cause you never know. But yeah, perhaps this is more a "what if" fic than anything. i'm in the roll of writing/exploring Widowmaker's character so imma run with it.

Widow hears the commotion outside her room: the pounding of feet and the barking of orders. It piques her interest for a moment, but little more. If it should concern her, then the word will come. What is the point of Widow going out of her way to stick her nose into someone else’s business? She is about to return her focus back to her sketchbook when the word comes in the form of a knock on her door.

A sigh, she glances up across the room, the shadow underneath it not of two feet.

 _What is it this time?_ She thinks as she peels herself off of the rather comfortable couch, dusting off the charcoal from her fingertips. The door opens to reveal the vague, pulsing shape of Gabriel at her doorstep.

Her eyebrow arcs at the sight, at the sheer state he’s in; fading in and out of his physical form. He stands, floats actually, little more than a man shaped shadow. The biting words she has prepared on her tongue shrink back. Widow may be emotionally lacking, but even she knows that now is not the time.

It takes a steadying breath that is more out of habit than of necessity before he finally speaks.

“We’ve got more strays coming in.” Gabriel’s words are slow and they grind like gravel, his tone the closest to hesitant that Widow has ever heard him be. “Heavily injured, _they_ want them to join up.”

So new recruits, what of it? Widow still does not see how any of this concerns her or why it has Gabriel so shaken up. Could it be that they’ve captured the cowboy he used to go on about? Even so, why has he-

With a frustrated grunt, Gabriel disintegrates into a pile at Widow’s feet and slinks away into her room before she has the chance to react.

It’s not worry, no, worry never solves any of her problems, but Widow feels an inkling of something as she gently closes the door and turns. Her eyes follow him, feet carrying her to sit at the couch where he slowly puts himself back together. _Together._

“You know who they are.” She states, not that she cares, but it will open up a conversation if that’s what Gabriel is here for.

He sits for a moment, if ‘sitting’ could accurately describe the mass of thrumming darkness, a single arm wrapped around two curled up legs. A mouth forms, then eyes and then finally the rest of his face; pensive, almost regretful.

Curious

“One is just some Overwatch grunt.” He pauses, mulling over his next words. “The other is Amari’s daughter.”

The name brings back a face and the touch of hands that guide Widow’s own to the proper positions to absorb the recoil of her sniper rifle. The sound of a gentle yet stern voice and then the tears of a small child that has walked into their lesson at the shooting range.

The sound of disappoint.

They are simple visions, muted and hazy, as if watching a movie but feeling no connection to the characters on the screen. A woman…just a woman.

It is better this way, better than the pitiful state Gabriel is in.

* * *

 

The last place that Widow would think to find herself is standing outside the recovery room of the med bay. The operation is done and all is still for now. There will be a new battle to face when their patient wakes up.

But for now…there is peace in the sterile air and the rhythmic sound of the woman’s heart monitor.

She doesn’t even flinch when Sombra materializes beside her. Being friends, _friends,_ with two agents that have the habit of doing so has made her quite accustomed to it. Perhaps Widow would go as far to say she feels a bit more secure when she notices the gentle buzz that would indicate a clocked Sombra nearby.

Perhaps ‘secure’ would be going too far.

“Ayy, you are worried.” Sombra teases, peering through the glass to the heavily bandaged form on the bed.

“I am not.” Widow replies. She doesn’t even spare her a glance.

“Liar.” Sombra skips over to the door, swiping the panel and disabling the security lock before waltzing in.

It is curiosity, she tells herself, that leads Widow to follow in after the woman.

And it is a curious thing that Widow knows _what_ she should be feeling; how she should be trying to break this woman out of this place, how she should be finding a way to escape herself. She knows that they are a terrorist organization, at least in the public eye. Yet she stands, face impassive as always and fingertips leaving dusty, winding trails in the clean bedsheets from charcoal she has forgotten to wipe off.

She knows if this woman is anything like her mother, then she has a daunting road ahead of her if Talon wants to induct her into their ranks. Perhaps death would be kinder.

Widow looks up, realizing that Sombra has taken her leave at some point, or was she even here in the first place? A glance behind her, the door is closed just as she remembers closing it. The room is still. No evidence. _Translocation._

It is just her luck that she feels a stirring at her fingertips followed by a soft groan. Her muscles jerk her arm back, not out of panic but perhaps a residual reflex as she holds her hand clenched at her side. She wants to run, put some distance between herself and this anomaly, this damned mess of something in her chest.

She could prevent the next Widowmaker, she could keep her from suffering what Amelie suffered.

She could do so much in this moment.

But in this moment.

Widow chooses to stand and watch as the woman’s head rolls to the side, her eyes scrunching tight before cracking open.

The sensors pick it up and Widow can hear the chiming from down the hall alerting the doctors. It won’t be long until their arrival.

In the last few moments that they are alone, Widow can do nothing else but watch as the woman pieces everything together. A slideshow of emotions that begins with confusion, expectance, recognition, realization, and then finally panic.

_Her arms, why couldn’t she move her arms?_

_One at the shoulder, the other mid bicep._

Widow reaches out, because…she doesn’t know. An attempt of comfort, to prevent her from hurting herself, or maybe just another reflex. Her fingers stroke the sliver of skin not covered by the oxygen mask, warm and soft. They leave behind a small smudge of charcoal beside the tattoo underneath her eye.

The woman stills only for a moment before the door opens and a fresh wave of panic crashes over her.

And so Widow steps back, out the door and pauses outside the window, back in her place just minute ago. She watches the doctors try to calm her down. She sees the woman glance out the window and catch her eyes.

Wide and scared, does she remember who Widow used to be? Does she know what they have planned for her and how much it is going to hurt?

It doesn’t matter now, Amelie will become a face to her just as Ana has become a face to Widow.

Widow doesn’t even remember the younger Amari’s name. The pity she feels is not enough to stop her from walking away, but it is enough to prompt to whisper a small prayer under her breath.


	2. Than Captured

Mission success. Broken, battered and bruised; but they are still alive unlike the unlucky many. Their fallen comrades will allow for the many others the grace of never having to experience the ache of their sacrifices. The life of a soldier, of a protector. 

But when Fareeha’s communicator buzzes in her still ringing ears, her heart drops. She’s already given the higher ups a brief verbal report, an actual one to come when they reach headquarters. With no other reason, she knows this has to be something else. 

Another, never enough. 

Tariq and Saleh are strapped to their gurneys, safely stowed away in the belly of the medical transport. She glances at them once more, eyes lingering on their unconscious forms, before walking to the other end of the plane to take the call. 

Calm to an untrained ear, but Fareeha has spent enough time working with the commander to know the sound of sweltering panic nipping at the heels of his words. Talon forces spotted 50 clicks south of her location, 3 transports; numbers unknown, motives unknown. Automated anti-aircraft defenses had been hacked and put offline, by the time the Egyptian fighters arrive the transports will have already reached the Heka International facility and still have plenty time to make their escape. . 

Rampant A.I. in nearby cities have pulled away Helix’s last two squads. Local police are dealing with the evacuation of civilians; not that they’re trained for this sort of encounter anyways. Military en route but too far out.

Out of options, the commander is searching for solutions. 

Fareeha should have blown the damned thing up. 

Desperation; an ugly emotion that is the fire that burns under them, prompting both creative and foolish decisions. If it’s Talon, then they have to be stopped no matter their motives, and if they seek to take control of Anubis…

She doesn’t want to drag them into this, they’ve already served their time in hell and every wary soldier needs a moment of repose. But once more; out of options and out of time, Fareeha doesn’t want to think about how much is at risk right now. If there is anyone qualified to save the day, it is Overwatch.

Not Overwatch, not anymore since the disbandment, but no one joins Overwatch without an already bleeding heart in their chest. 

Lucio

Lena

Murcat

Friends.

_ Resources that should be used to their full potential. Nothing wasted, nothing left behind. _

They’re already in the city and already have the training of years in Overwatch with their own equipment and weapons. For now, they’re the closest thing Fareeha has for reinforcements. An impromptu strike force, perhaps also the closest thing Fareeha will ever get to working with Overwatch. She will pretend, pretend to be as noble and courageous as them. 

Talon threatens the lives of innocents and Fareeha will protect. 

_ But who gets to determine innocence. There is no time for a jury and judge in the chaos of the battlefield. _

They’re all just doing their jobs.  __

“Alright what’s the plan? Get in, kick some bloody arse and rescue Zandra, yeah? Yeah, sounds good to me, mate.” Lena fidgets and paces, eyes burning with anger ever since Fareeha’ briefing.

Their swift arrival left little time for Fareeha to formulate any sort of actual plan. The moment they came, the four of them had to duck into a doorway at the sound of jet engines above. Four against however many Talon had brought in three transports. Still no idea of a motive, no contact, nothing. It would seem that they will be flying in blind. 

“Impossible “ to most, “another day on the job” to Overwatch agents. 

Lena is the only one who can easily fit and maneuver through the ventilation shafts Zandra’s team of engineers had used to try reaching the controls rooms, and the only one light enough on her feet with the trump card of rewinding herself out of sticky situation; the best one fit for a little intel gathering. 

Intel first, Zandra second. 

Man or the mission. Fareeha needs to remind herself sometimes, and as much as she understands and as hypocritical as it is; she needs Lena to know. To promise that the mission will come first when so many lives are riding on them. If Talon has sent this many operatives in, they must have something big planned. 

While Zandra may mean the world to Lena; there is just too much at stake.

The minutes tick by, the wait manifesting into deep aches in their shoulders and cold droplets of sweat that roll down the backs of their necks. They are forced to wait until they get  _ something _ akin to a plan. 

“They’re planting bombs. “ Lena’s voice rings across their synced communicators, hushed with a slight metallic echo to it. 

“How many and where?” 

Dozens along the mainframe of Anubis, on the consoles in the control rooms Lena has passed, everything piece tech as far as she can tell. Is their plan to destroy the entire facility? 

Why? It doesn’t matter, not when it sounds like there is enough explosives to level the entire block. 

They will be stopped.

_ Every moment Anubis is online, it is a threat to global security. Firewalls are bound to fail; an oversight, a snake, the slightest mistake. The gain is not worth the risk; it is a ticking time bomb, a prisoner waiting for the perfect moment to mount its escape at the expense of its captors and innocents caught in the crossfire.  _

They will be stopped.

Fareeha thinks fast, thinks brash with her feet in the shoes of her enemy. None of them are explosive experts, no, but if one cannot take away the flame or gasoline, perhaps they can take away the firewood. If they could render Anubis immune to their attacks, it may leave Talon scrambling for another plan and give them enough time until proper reinforcements arrive. 

Zandra is the only one still alive who has the ability to reactivate the chronolock that would slip Anubis into it’s own pocket of time; harmless and impervious to anything on this plane of existence. 

And if anything, a last resort, dead Talon operatives can’t push detonation buttons. 

They hope it is not an automated bomb. 

For now, it’s as solid a plan as they can get. 

Fareeha made a vow to protect the innocent, in this moment, that would be protecting Anubis to prevent the death of others. But is Anubis innocent?

_ Hardly _

But it is her job, her duty, and if she lets Anubis fall then the deaths of half her squad would have been for naught. If it falls, then the deaths of Zandra’s entire team, of every single soul caught in the crossfires and dead from their efforts of keeping it contained; all of them for nothing. 

So she cannot let it fall, not after all of this. Fareeha protects the lives of innocents as well as their deaths. 

So they fight through the pain and the fear of maybe this will be their last fight. 

Until Fareeha, Murcat, and Lucio have fought their way over piles of bodies with Lucio’s music helping them forget the bullets lodged in their flesh. 

Until Lena has rescued Zandra from her vault and they’ve made it to a control room. 

Until victory is in sight and there isn’t a moment to spare but they manage to steal one anyways after clearing the chamber that Anubis overlooks. 

“If this is the end-” Murcat gasps and gargles, a lung steadily filling with blood. 

“It’s not going to be.” Lucio tries his best to sound so sure.

“But if it is,” 

Fareeha feels as though she in intruding into something private but staying close is how they’ve survived for this long. She averts her eyes but cannot close her ears.  

“ _ Havā-tō dāram _ (I have your weather). Dead or alive, Lucio, I’ll always be watching over you.” 

“And the same to you, Ardashir” 

Jelously and relief; she cannot decide whether or not she wishes to feel the pain that the two do. Fareeha’s ears perk through the sound enhancements of her helmet. Footsteps approaching, she turns sharply to the pair. 

“Hostiles incoming!” 

They hope it is the final wave, the final battle to defend their position until Zandra is able to reactivate the shields. It will be the final one, one way or another; they know they won’t be able to survive anymore. 

“We’ll get through this.” Lucio looks to Murcat, then to Fareeha

“Together.”

Family; perhaps the closest Fareeha has ever felt to one. 

_ “Together” _

And they fight to the final moments with Fareeha hovering above, Murcat and Lucio digging their heels in. A deep vibration resonates throughout the massive chamber; a hum so intense that the firing pauses and all eyes shift to the blue haze quickly materializing over Anubis’ surface. 

The chronolock, Anubis has been secured.

Success.

The elation lasts for only a moment before the world rocks and tilts. Dust instantly fills the air and Fareeha’s lungs, some heavy comes crashing into her back and she can feel her wings snap from the impact. All of it comes crashing down.

They must’ve detonated the bombs. There is so much ringing in her ears and throbbing in her head. Is she still alive?

Everything is reduced to rubble. Her face feels warm with the morning sun streaming in through the crumbling walls, her lungs sting with the acrid smell of ozone and burning electronics. 

Move, she needs to move.

Chunks of cement roll off her body as she shifts and twists, desperately trying to retch her left arm from out the hole it’s wedged into. Once her vision focuses, Fareeha nearly retches at the sight; her left arm lays pinned beneath a slab of concrete. It’s little more than a crushed blue can with blood seeping out cracks in the metal. Her wrist rocket must have detonated upon impact. 

A shadow falls over her, a moment of panic before she realizes it's the worried face of Murcat as he crouches over and tries to lift the rock from off her arm. Even together, it doesn’t so much as budge. He is saying something; Fareeha can see his lips moving but there is no sound. She can feel warm blood trickling down the sides of her face. 

Murcat’s head jerks up as if in response to a call. Blurry figures peak from over the piles of rubble surrounding them. His hands go for the side arm strapped to his hip but before he even gets close his body locks up, jerking and twitching with the look of pure pain across his face. 

Fareeha shouts, she can’t even hear herself nor does she know what she is saying. Murcat’s body collapses into a heap beside her, his eyes fluttering shut. 

Too much pain to move, to much weight to lift, Fareeha can only watch as hands lift him up and carry him away. It’s foolish, she knows, just desperate hope that maybe this is the Egyptian military, that maybe their saviors have arrived. She knows they’re trigger happy in concerns with Overwatch, maybe they were just trying to protect her.

Hands go to work at pulling the debris off of her. Please, please,  _ please. _

An it’s not; the horns of a “T” like fangs that sink into her heart, the coldness of dread spreading like venom through her veins. Somewhere in her barely conscious mind, she doesn’t quite register who “Talon” is, all she can hear is the booming command that her mind gives to  _ struggle against them _ .

But there is nowhere to retreat to, nothing she can do as the rest of her limbs are dug out but her arm still keeps her trapped. The gloved hands like the growing darkness around the edges of her vision that threaten to swallow her with every throb of her head.

A system check, the rack of rockets in her right shoulder is still operational.

Desperation; such an ugly emotion

Better dead than captured, better dead than whatever monster Talon is going to turn her into.

_ Mind, values, morals unaltered; only the whole story. _

Monster

Fareeha protects, she will protect others from what she may become.

The world explodes with scorching heat once again.

 

* * *

 

A murky darkness, a cold that has no carrier ebbs in and out of her body but not through skin. It flows all around her, into her mouth and lungs bringing with it the taste of a stale breath but a breath nonetheless. Nerves tingle, wounds don’t heal but they don’t bleed either.

Fareeha’s eyes snap open. Her body is swinging, encasing in some kind of sack. A body bag? Have they mistaken her for dead? 

No, the bag is clear but the air in it is hazy with ink. An emblem above her head, the horns of a “T”.

No, no, no!

There is no strength left in her to struggle, not that any part of her body responds to her panicked calls anyways. The scene of rubble passes by her eyes almost peacefully with no sound to be heard, nothing but the gentle swaying of her body as if in a hammock along the beach.

Better dead than captured.

She tried her best for the former. 

Never enough.

Her eyelids grow heavy, all of her does; her chest, her heart, her soul weighed down with the grim acceptance of her situation. But Fareeha will fight, keep fighting until her heart stops beating and there are no more sacrifices she can make. She will survive whatever horrors they have planned for her and she will come out on the other side; the same guardian as she was before. Someone will come looking for her. 

They bring her past the mainframe of Anubis; its massive form still standing tall enveloped in its own pocket of time. 

Fareeha’s Helix squad succeeded in their first mission of disabling it and then the four of them succeeded in defending it. Shouldn’t it be pride in her chest and not this regret?

Why do the eyes of Anubis look down at her with such mirth and pity?

 

* * *

The screen closes surrounding to the darkness of quarters rarely lived in. It’s not safe to stay close to Talon facilities. 

One should not defecate where they graze after all. 

The first step is always the drafting of the foundation. To find out what they have to work with and against; the weak points, the points that they are to avoid and in this case, the morals that they want to play to. It’s not entirely in her control, but it’d be a lie to say she doesn’t heavily influence the regiment Talon will decide on. 

Perhaps she will find herself another friend out of all this. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't figured this, it's a flashback to show the event that got Fareeha captured by talon. 
> 
> A quick rundown now that I've straightened it, for those who care. This story is going to run parallel with At the Seams at these points. WARNING, major info drop and possible spoilers:
> 
> \- This plot splits when it's Tracer's squad rather than Lucio's squad that gets called to the revolt. This leads to Lena getting her two fingers blow off instead of getting them blown off in England when confronting Murcat. This also leads to Lucio never getting his legs blown off and Murcat never getting captured by Beloved of Ma'at.   
> \- Beloved of Ma'at become more aggressive in trying to capture someone from Overwatch since they weren't able to get Murcat or anyone from Lena's squad. At this time, Pharah in in the Egyptian military (not Helix) and what gets her caught in At the Seams is her commanders underestimate Beloved of Ma'at and only sends her squad in to foil on of their operations. This time in "Pity", since Beloved is so aggressive, commanders send multiple squads in and they deals with it properly w/o anyone getting captured.   
> \- So Fareeha never needs to be rescued in the cellar, so she doesn't get close to Lena until later. Lena remains in Egypt with Zandra.   
> \- Fareeha plays a huge part in actually taking down Ma'at and she retires from the service with honors, she actually has plans to return when Helix offers her a chance to try out their new battle suit: Raptora. Fareeha says yes cause it reminds her of birds.   
> \- Zandra goes to the tech conference in Belarus where Ana gets sniped and Zandra's team of scientists are captured by Talon. They're still rescued but w/o Murcat in Talon's ranks, Zandra hold heavy disdain for Talon, and from that; Lenad Lucio and Murcat have heavier hatred towards Talon  
> \- Helix Security works in tandem with Heka International, they beef up security and hire Fareeha on as full time guard. She likes it better than being told to run out and kill things, she would rather protect.   
> \- Outside factors push Mondatta's speech to a later date, so Tracer doesn't confront Widow at that event. So her accelerator doesn't get fucked up and she doesn't go to Gibraltar to get it fixed.   
> \- After disbandment, Lucio and Murcat get fucking married. They tour around world before returning to Egypt for Lena and Zandra's marriage when Anubis happens  
> \- But back to Pharah, she becomes really good friends with Zandra and in suite Lena, Lucio, and Murcat. The original tension between Fareeha and Zandra spawned from Fareeha being interested in Lena and being a touch awkward in romance situations and Zandra being very protective, they just didn't get along very well. Without that in this timeline, the four of them often hang out together.   
> \- So Anubis happens (what 'Anubis' means is the events that happen in Pharah's comic 'Mission Statement'), it plays out just like the comic and just like in "At the Seams" with Zandra getting stuck in the vault.  
> \- But this time around, Talon comes in and thus forces Fareeha to do ditch effort and call in her Overwatch buddies in hopes of slowing talon down.   
> \- of course they agree  
> \- And thus sets up the stage for Lena to save Zandra from the vault, have them sneak and fight their way to a control room to reactivate the Chronolock that'll put Anubis into a bubble. At the same time, Pharah, Lucio, and Murcat are fighting ground level in that giant chamber with Anubis, trying to kill everyone they can so maybe they can brute force their way into stopping the bomb from going off. That and to draw attention away from Lena and Zandra.  
> \- From there, Fareeha gets captured and taken in, Gabriel has had plenty of time to settle into his Reaper persona and into Talon, and thus "Pity" begins.   
> And that's how i bloody world build, Cheers mate


	3. Caskets of Scarecrows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really like where this is going actually. Like, for something that was on a whim, it's really fun to focus on exploring Widow and Sombra.

“Fareeha Amari.”

The voice slithers, belly low to the earth as it weaves between blades of grass. Drawing close and closer; watching, calculating, waiting for the perfect opportunity to sink its fangs in deep and poison, to burrow in and corrupt. Fareeha remembers the tone well with the countless training sessions she had both in the military and at Helix.

She will resist.

Surroundings betray what she imagined a Talon base to look like. It’s like any other hospital;  bright lights, sterile air, the smell of death lurking just around the corner. Her jaw clenches tight. Her answer is silence as she continues to blankly stare forward. 

“Do you know where you are?”

The belly of a hellhound.

More silence

The doctor sighs and scrolls through the files on his holopad. They were told to expect this.

“We don’t expect your cooperation, Fareeha. We know trust takes time.”

This piques her interest; his tone more than his words. It is soft, tired, and almost gentle. Almost trustful. The notion lasts but a moment before scattering like a flock of startled doves. Fareeha’s shoulders tense, the image of her dead mother flashes through her mind. 

Talon took her away. 

Ruthless

She will resist. 

“You are in the medical bay of one of our bases. You sustained heavy injuries during the fight that have lead to the amputation of both your arms.” 

One at the shoulder, one mid bicep.

“Look,” the masked face of the doctor peeks into her vision. Fareeha makes the mistake of sparing him a glance one second too long, his eyes are aged and kind. 

She jerks away, gritting her teeth. Of course they would send a gentle old man with the false face of warmth. As if he poses no threat to her, or perhaps a display to show how little of a threat she poses to them.

One at the shoulder, one mid bicep. 

The tears and despair begin to tease at the lip of her mind, threatening to spill over each time she thinks about her current situation. Better dead than captured and yet here she is.

“I want to help you. I know Talon doesn’t have the best reputation and I don’t completely agree with everything they do, but they’ve got the resources to let me help people like you.” 

People like her? What-

No

Lies

She can’t give them a drop of consideration.

“Helix is not going to do anything about you. They work for profit and a crippled soldier is just a liability to them.”

All of it, bait dangling on a hook to drag her into insanity. 

“It’s not the first time they’ve made their own people disappear.” 

Fareeha flinches away from the sudden bright light of a holopad shoved into her face. She doesn’t want to look but there they are; faces in the same uniform she once wore. None of them she recognizes.

“The cloud will tell you they all died in the line of duty. ‘An honourable death’. But they’re lying. Men and women too injured to return to the fight and instead of paying for their rehabilitation, Helix kills them off. A handsome lump sum to beneficiaries and that’s the end. We’ve only been able to recuse a small handful.” 

And then it’s Tariq’s face, her squadmate ‘killed in action’. Her jaw slackens, eyes unable to tear away from the face she has spent the last year fighting beside. ‘Sustained heavy internal bleeding, severe cranial trauma, broken bones, swelling of the brain.’

Lies

Fareeha had helped him into the medical evac, spoken to him moments before they gave him sedatives for the pain. A crushed leg, perhaps a few broken ribs at most but nothing fatal. 

But a liability.

She expects to see Saleh’s face next, but instead…

Instead…

“Injured soldiers cost more than dead ones.”

Fareeha “Pharah” Amari

It can’t be. 

‘Extreme trauma sustained from close proximity to Talon explosions. Pronounced dead on site’

Did they even try to look for her? What of Murcat, Lucio, or even Lena? 

Just another tactic, false facts to turn her against Helix. 

She will resist. 

“We help the forgotten ones, the ones others leave behind for dead and we give them justice.” 

The snarl comes lightening fast. Fareeha’s lips curl down and she glares at him with fury and disgust. How twisted Talon must be to make its agents believe that they’re actions are justifiable. For them to even dare use the word ‘justice’. 

They are the cause of why she is here, it is their actions that has cost the lives of nearly her entire squad and countless others. Their fault.

All of it.

And it’s their fault that she’s now-

Fareeha can’t stop the tears that are now streaming down her face. Her throat is raw like sandpaper with breath barely able to scrape by. Her body feels like a prison, she had her whole life ahead of her. First the collapse of Overwatch, and now this. 

A cripple

There is the science of prosthetics, but she knows it’ll never be the same. Even helix rarely hired…She thinks, only once in her years of working with them has she ever seen a person with a prosthetics in Helix. 

Perhaps it is true.

Perhaps the end of her story starts now.

Fareeha grits her teeth and rips her face away from the napkin the doctor is using to wipe away her tears. Human contact is the last thing she wants right now.

“Leave,” she growls, as if she is at all in any position to be making demands. There will be a backlash, a punishment for the audacity she displays.

But he purses his lips, crumples the tissue in his hand, and places a cylinder beside the stub that once was Fareeha’s left arm. 

“There’s a sensor in this, knock it over to call a nurse. You can also call out to our resident A.I., Ares. I’ll be back in a few hours with your dinner.” 

He pauses for a moment, waiting to see if Fareeha has anything else to say. Nothing and she keeps her eyes locked on the ceiling. Another sigh. Her punches a few keys into the nearby monitor and glances back to her once more. 

Eyes full of pity.

Fareeha once again makes the mistake of meeting his gaze. It makes her want to clench hands she no longer has. He looks at her as if she is an injured child, patronizing, infuriating, faked.

And so he leaves. 

Alone again, for a few breaths. Then.

Silence

It dredges up thoughts from down below.

Against the tide of her will, against her desperate attempts to stay whole as a good little soldier, a strong stoic soldier.

Battering waves 

and 

Lungs full of bitter water

She breathes

Tries to

Better to die standing than to live on her knees.

Eyes drift downwards, carried by the currents of curiosity and for the first time she sees the full extent of her injuries. The blanket is drawn up to her chest, leaving her left bicep uncovered and-

Fareeha squeezes her eyes shut, more tears salty and scalding hot. Her head hits her pillow and she lets out a frustrated shout. She half expects the door to burst open but as the seconds tick by, there is only silence.

Video monitor no doubt, they can see that she’s just throwing a fit. 

Her squad succeeded, hadn’t they? Their goal of preserving Anubis, but the blast still went off. How many more people had to die?

Her job, her duty.

One at the shoulder, one mid bicep.

Who would be willing to take on the expensive task of making her new arms, of staying with her through rehabilitation. The pay of a soldier would be nowhere near enough.

She wonders as if Talon would let her walk out if she asked.

But Fareeha knows what they do with the psychoanalyzing of the few captured operatives the Egyptian military has been able to question. They couldn’t tell who joined Talon willingly and who were forced to. Muddy, impossible to discern, and in the end they all faced the same punishment.

Execution for war crimes. 

And what of her, will Fareeha fall to the same fate? What kind of monster will they turn her into? Soon will come the pain, the torture, their brutal methods of brainwashing so that she becomes their perfect little toy soldier like all the rest. 

Help is on the way, it has to be. The doctor just showed her falsified reports to make her lose hope. 

She will resist

She will stay strong

Someone will come for her. 

 

* * *

Dinner comes, the doctor and a nurse. More questions, less answers, just silence and lies.

Fareeha doesn’t let her surprise show as the days roll by. It feels no different from a normal hospital all the way down to the overly-nosy nurse who just means well.

Who  _ acts _ like she means well.

Fareeha wishes she could feed herself. 

Conversations are attempted and eventually deteriorate to become one sided. They are not conversations, this is not a ‘normal’ situation and Fareeha cannot afford to let her guard down.

“Would you like to watch T.V.?”

Fareeha’s eyes fall back onto the nurse whose name she refuses to learn, all of her ‘caregivers’ will remain nameless in Fareeha’s mind. Nameless, faceless, safer this way as it’s easier to deny a voice versus the social norms of pressured courtesy.

“Call on Ares and they can turn on the holoscreen for you.”

Ah yes, the resident A.I. that Fareeha has yet to interact with. Does she want to, though? What good is it to just listen to more lies? 

The nurse gathers up the tray and utensils, more fiddling with the monitor. Fareeha doesn’t look at her, just feels her stand next to her bed. Her gaze burns.

“Tomorrow we hope to get you on your feet for some physical therapy, miss Amari.” 

Fareeha doesn’t answer her.

And so she leaves. 

Alone again, physically, but in her mind a deafening storm of an argueing forum. Her options are few, those that she does have are evolving with every scrap of information tossed to her but she can’t tell which scrapes are spoiled and which are good to eat. 

Talon has yet to do anything to make her doubt the words of her doctor for the last week. And still..

“Ares.”

“Yes, miss Amari?” 

The corner of her mouth twitches, the machine no doubt has files on her. 

“I would like to watch the news.”

“Certainly, which channel would you like to watch?”

As if she has a choice.

 

* * *

As far as Fareeha can tell, the news channels have not been doctored; it’s the same usual reporter, same style, down to their speech pattern that Fareeha has grown up listening to. Updates on the world, developments of stories she once followed before her...incident. And then information regarding the rebuilding of Heka International's facility.

Dozens dead, only a handful of civilians thanks to swift evacuation. Begrudging praise to the ex-Overwatch agents that stepped up to heed the call for reinforcements. DJ Lúcio Correia dos Santos horrific injuries leading to the amputation of both legs. 

It would seem that he has the money and fame to remain among the living against the wishes of Helix. 

Saleh with only minor injuries, expected to return to duty with the month.

The honorable deaths of Tariq, Murcat and Fareeha “Pharah” Amari. Easier to call them dead than to search for their stolen bodies. 

‘Killed in action’

Caskets of scarecrows.

She yells at Ares to shut the screen off, plunging her room into the dim lighting of night. The room may be quiet but that only makes the echoing words sound louder in her head. ‘Killed in Action’

Like mother like daughter.

In a bout of frustration, Fareeha kicks the covers from off of herself. Only when she tries to stand for the first time does she realize how uncoordinated she has become. The refusal of her limbs to move properly makes the fear and anger burn hotter. What has she become?

So weak that she cannot stand. 

So scared and she cannot face the truth.

So alone in this fight.

This is the torture; this is the pain of hopelessness that wraps its cold fingers around her heart as she lays in a crumpled heap on the floor. They don’t need her strapped to a chair when she cannot even escape unbound. Her legs flail out and she begs herself to get up and run. The door it right there, so close, if this were any point before she would’ve bet her luck to fight her way out hand-to-hand. 

Better dead than captured.

Better dead that crippled.

Better dead.

Another round of sobs rack her body; all the pent up emotions she held in to fool herself into believing she is stronger than this. Angry, raw, clawing for air just as her lungs are. The need to prove to herself that she could just  _ fucking stand up. _

But she can’t.

Fareha lays.

The ground cool against her skin.

Curled into a ball, wishing that it is all a lie, wishing Talon would just torture her already and make her forget all of this. Hope has left her, alone broken. She protects, but who will come to protect her?

No one is coming for them.

No one even knows that they are alive.

Hell, Fareeha doesn’t even know if Murcat is still alive. 

But will her friends believe what Helix says? Lena, Zandra, Lucio; surely they won’t believe the lies, they will look for her. If not her, then Lucio will look for his husband. If not, then Fareeha will find Murcat herself and they’ll find a way to escape. 

A semblance of a plan.

Comforting 

Slowly

Fareeha’s breath steadies

Her muscles quietly comply.

She rolls and struggles to get herself into a seated position, her back to her bed, her eyes watching the closed door across the room. The light at the end of the tunnel, the first step but Fareeha is no where near ready to try for it. 

No ‘man or the mission’, Fareeha can’t decide whether she wants to find Murcat; will he be able to withstand Talon’s games? She can’t even promise that she’ll be sane by the end of it all.

But the time has not come yet. Still armless, still weak, Fareeha knows there will be so much more ahead of her. And she’ll play their game on her own rules, regain her strength, and one day she will bring them to justice. 

 

* * *

No restraints, no threats, no armed guards. Just a nurse, a doctor, a wheelchair ride to the therapy room. Almost normal. She almost wants to believe that it is.

Would they let her leave if she asked?

Would they change tactics, strap her down, build the soldier that they want from the shell of what she has become. 

Or perhaps it is an infiltration and the planting of doubt into her mind. 

Will there come a day where Fareeha will join Talon willingly?

In her brief lapse of focus, the pain of a rolled ankle screams up her leg. Her instincts tell her to fling her hands out to brace for the fall. A lapse in memory, her chest clenches painfully. 

One at the shoulder, one mid bicep. 

Two pairs of hands catch her only milliseconds into her fall. They say words of assurance, of comfort that they’ll keep working on it together. That it'll all be okay. 

All Fareeha can focus on is the mess of scar tissue that caps her left arm. Helpless, hopeless, useless.

Pride tells her to refuse their aid; reality tells her to keep fighting.

The next step is such a struggle. Fareeha feels her muscles straining and trembling, her balance on an uneven keel. What was once so easy and thoughtless.

They tell her it is shrapnel in her spinal cord. Removed but she will still need to relearn how to use her limbs. 

Fareeha doesn’t know whether or not she believes them.

The third, the fourth, and Fareeha is already out of breath. 

Shame fills in the gaps created by the oxygen fleeing her lungs Each breath comes shorter and shorter. She can’t even lash out, can’t go to a punching bag and work out this twisting agony in her chest. 

The fifth step and her knees give out, the hand are there again. They catch her body but Fareeha feels her beating heart tumble out of her chest and shatter upon the linoleum floor and the flood gates open.

The weight of it all comes bearing down once more onto her shuddering body racked with cursed sobs she cannot stop. Here she is, a prisoner of one of the largest terrorist organizations in the world, and she can’t even  _ fucking walk. _

“You need to keep going.” 

They tell her and she knows. Redirect the anger, use it as fuel. Spite burns hotter when there is nothing else to keep the engine running.

 

* * *

“Your friend is making good progress. She’ll be getting new arms Friday.” 

Widow glances down at the nearly materialized woman now falling into step beside her, grunting in mild annoyance before shifting her gaze back forward She had hoped for a quiet afternoon alone in her quarters, now she has this thing tailing after her. She shouldn’t have chanced a trip to the mess hall.

“As if I care.” 

“Ah, but you do,  _ arana  _ (Spider).” Sombra says with a smirk, “I know you asked Ares about her.” 

Another huff of annoyance, Widow expected as much, knew that Sombra would notice and yet she did it anyways. The blasted hacker couldn’t keep her fingers out of anything.

“Irrelavant.”

“Don’t let your pride get in the way of your curiosity.”

Her strides come to an abrupt halt and Widow turns to loom over Sombra. The taunt is not the first of its kind; they are the same words Sombra used when Widow ‘took interest’ in Overwatch’s ex-pilot. She was curious then, not that she’d ever admit that, but this time. 

It’s a sort of gnawing when she thinks of this ‘Fareeha Amari’. The idea of being ‘curious’ causes her stomach to churn. Discomfort, disgust, and a disconnect is needed; distance between her and this maddening feeling. 

Now stops her inquiries, to stop chasing answers in hope of alleviating the itch at the base of her skull. It’s just a waste of time and effort that she will do better redirecting to her next assignment. Widow is above being tethered to her emotions, never again. 

Without any parting words other than Widow staring impassively down at Sombra for a few moments, she quickly turns and strides away. Footsteps follow her until she is at her doorstep. 

The hallway is empty when Widow turns to shut the door behind her. 

Whether or not Sombra has followed her inside it doesn’t matter, the woman will lose interest if Widow refuses to play along to her little game. 

She shuts the door, waiting a second and listening to hear to faint hum of a cloaked Sombra nearby. Nothing, silence.

Typical. Better this way. 

Easier, simpler

The room is dark, her sparse belongings neatly tucked away in their proper places. Nothing to indicate a second occupant or an intrusion, but Widow knows better.

With a tap of a finger, her holopad that she left on her desk springs to life. The same start up screens flash across as she unpacks her lunch; the very lunch that left her so vulnerable to Sombra’s nosy prying. Not that it could have been avoided; Sombra would’ve waited until she finally left her quarters for any reason. 

Perhaps this is more than a game to her, an obsession. 

Little annoyances. Nothing more. 

And there it is, just as Widow expects it to be. A file with Sombra’s childish signature skull. A relic of her past. Only amateurs leave calling cards. 

Her finger hovers over the icon. She knows what’s in it, the same type of information when Sombra found out about her interest in Lena. Enough information to wet her palette but not enough to satisfy anything else; a taste that will have to returning to Sombra for more. 

She took the bait then.

It’s always a game to Sombra. No matter the situation, no matter the stakes.

A child, remarkable that she has survived this long. 

Widow doesn’t understand her, but then again, she doesn’t quite understand herself either. 

She’ll be smarter this time around.

The file is plucked up from her screen and deleted. It’ll be there again come tomorrow, but for now she starts her usual playlist of cello music. A decent meal in front of her, no distractions, no storms in her mind. Quiet in her own pleasant company.

Peace. The closest to it that Widow knows. 

 

* * *

“Are you ready?”

She was, thought she was. Logical in theory to take what she is given, bide her time until she is strong enough to strike back. Different now as she sits in front of a table where two arms lay before her. Surreal, a thought that her mind can’t quite wrap around just yet: in a few moments those arms will no longer be lifeless but her very lifeline to regaining some semblance of normalcy.

Humbling and humiliating to be unable to do the most basic things for the last month, where pride bore no aid when it came to brushing her own damned teeth or wiping her own ass. Dehumanizing, now is a chance to change that. 

Fareeha would smile in anticipation if there were not the red ‘T’ stamped on either arm and sewn into the scrubs of the gathered nurses and doctors. 

One nurse, nameless like they all are, steps forward, holding some sort of headgear in his hands. It blinks red and it’s just what is needed to tip Fareeha’s nerves off their delicate balance. 

“Stop,” growls Fareeha, scooting back into the stiff chair they have seated her in.

And still to her surprise, the nurse stops. 

“This is a neural transmitter. It will help you control your new prosthetics.” 

Lies

More likely to control her mind. What will happen if it malfunctions or when she decides that is time to break out of this hellhole. Is this the hidden kill switch, the collar that will keep her shackled to this place masked with good intentions. Fareeha isn’t sure if she is willing to take the risk.

Does she even have a choice?

“We can take it slow, we’re all here to help you. There’s nothing to be afraid of, miss Amari.”

A voice too sickly sweet, an assurance she is so sure masks ulterior motives. Talon never wants to ‘just help’. 

There is _ everything _ to be afraid of. 

Because she knows one day this entire charade will come to an end and the curtain will lift to reveal the true workings of Talon. It will be the day where Fareeha will stop being a protecter of the innocent and instead a monster under the control of the unjust. A weapon and nothing more.

Fareeha will make sure that day will never come; let her be dead or alive free. 

She has to bite back her instinctive refusal and take a moment to reconsider. Her options are slim, walking on eggshells and Fareeha doesn’t know where they have hidden their pitfall traps. Talon holds power of her, yes, this gift is a two sided sword.

Yet there has been no signs of ill intentions on Talon’s part. A month of  _ normalcy _ and it’s driving Fareeha mad. Is this how Talon is able to recruit so many people?

Fareeha would be lying if she said it didn’t impress her.

“Fareeha.”

Again she is snapped out of her mind and back into the moment, to the tech held out in front of her. It blinks as if searching, waiting for some poor sod to corrupt. Perhaps Fareeha will be able to resist its influence. 

Hopeful

Egotistical

Foolish

To have the ability to fight back or willing put on a leash that Talon can choke her with. 

Perhaps both.

The risk.

“I don’t want that on my head.”

She makes her decision.  

_ I don’t trust you yet _ is the implication that draws no outward expression from the medical staff present. The doctor kneels down in front of her, grey eyes warm and hopeful; optimistic and encouraging. 

“That’s alright, we will move forward when your are ready.”

A writhing mass of disgust twists Fareeha’s stomach.

 

* * *

“Color me impressed, you still haven’t looked at the files i gave you. Maybe I should just pull them up right now.”

Again, Widow does her best to ignore Sombra suddenly walking beside her. There is no escape this time as they are both heading towards the same briefing room for their next assignment. An information run judging by it being just the two of them on this mission. 

“My little jackal, still learning how to sit on command I see.” 

Widow glances down, Sombra already has several screens pulled open. Most of it is charts and reports. The one that catches her eye is the security feed of Fareeha’s hospital room. 

Fareeha paces the floor, feet coming heel to toe each step. Her eyes are closed and she barely falters. An exercise, it would seem that the soldier is desperate for a distraction. She is still armless despite Sombra’s claim of her receiving prosthetics four days ago. 

Has she refused them?

Foolish.

But why has Fareeha been given a choice when Widow had no say with her legs?

There is no time for curiosity as they arrive at the briefing room and it all blinks away with the flick of her hand. A blank mind, optimal to focus on the task, the mission. Widow looks forward for the satisfaction of killing someone. 

 

* * *

The world is blurry and pulsing the moment Fareeha opens her eyes. Everything blooms with colors, in and out of focus, the sound of alarms that seem to dance all around her head. She is shouting, screaming something before nausea wrenches whatever contents are in her stomach onto the floor. 

Floor?

When-

In the haze of whiteness, she can make out the door bursting open and feet rushing in. A hand lifts her face from out of the puddle of warm vomit, tilting up and she can see the face of the doctor wrought with panic and worry. 

An impressive actor.

One moment she is staring up at his face, the next it is covered by a surgical mask. A plastic sheet is draped and secured around her neck, another is rapidly approaching her face. She knows panic is thrashing against the cage that is her ribs but her body is too numb to respond. The weight of an elephant seated on her chest and she can barely keep her eyes open. 

A cup is secured to her nose and mouth before the turquoise plastic is wrapped just above her brow. The air they feed her smells oily,  _ feels _ oily as it slides down into her lungs and sends her nerves tingling and buzzing. She tries to fight against the calmness settling in and to stay conscious to hear the words swimming around her.

Surgery

Blocked

Okay

Everything is going to be okay.

Lies

Her eyes drift closed.

She will resist their lies. 

 

* * *

Sombra will never get over how beautiful cities look at night in the darkness where the brilliance of lights dot the landscape. Each illuminated window is attached to a soul, sometimes more than one. So many targets, so little time.

She turns at the sound of the glass door behind her sliding open and then shut. 

“About time,  _ arana,”  _ Sombra greets Widow with a grin. Her eyes follow the sniper as she steps out to lean against the balcony railing.

It has to be company that Widow seeks, there’s nothing left to discuss about their assignment that’ll start early tomorrow morning. Its moments like these that never fail to make Sombra so happy, humble, hesitant. 

Sombra extends her packet of cigarettes, knowing that Widow doesn’t smoke.

A single cigarette is taken.

But Amelie once did.

Once lit, Widow takes in a long drag with little trouble, letting the hot smoke fill her throat and lungs with a heat that she wishes she could feel organically. 

A small, knowing smile graces Sombra’s lips. 

“How are you Amelie?” She asks gently. 

Golden eyes stay lost on the nightlife of the city below. The hustle and bustle of it all serves to pull her further into her memories and regrets. Of choices that she made with her body but not with her mind. Not her fault but she feels not enough remorse to change any of it. It is just the calamity of life.

Another choking breath.

“I’m worried about her.”

“We can get you the help you need-”

“Non, not that, but I am always worried about her,” Widow says with a shake of her head and an uncharastically airy chuckle. She turns to look at Sombra, eyes piercing despite the warmth of her gaze. “How is Talon treating Fareeha?”

A few gestures and several screens materialize before them. For Sombra, she is more interested in studying Widow’s face than the information streaming past. Gone is her cocky smirk and thorns, in their place is an odd mixture of care, sympathy,

Perhaps regret.

“You don’t need to worry your pretty little head about her. As long as she keeps cooperating, she’ll be just fine.” 

It takes but a moment for Widow to give her a deceptively charming smile. 

“You’re lying to me,” she says low. Not the promise of violence but a twinge of guilt lances through Sombra all the same.

A foreign feeling, one she wishes she could avoid but it’s her responsibility now; the only one she feels obligated to keep. 

“ _ Ay dios mio _ , you are impossible to please.” Sombra relents. With a swipe of her hand she brushes the screens away and new ones come into being. 

A heart monitor, an x-ray with points plotted out, and the security feed of an operating theatre with an army of doctors surrounding a single hospital bed. In the center of them is a shaven scalp lined with plastic, the skin peeled back, the skull-

Widow leans closer, cigarette forgotten as she zooms in on the video. Morbid curiosity allows her to soldier through the nausea rising in her throat. They poke and prod, nothing taken out but wires and chips going in. 

“Poor girl,” whispers Widow, the words sound as if they are an afterthought. “Is that what they did to me?” 

“Trust me, you don’t want to know.” 

Widow’s eyes flick from the screen to Sombra, challenging her as she straightens up to full height. 

“That is what you tell me everytime I ask. I am starting to think you actually don’t know.” 

“Hah! Of course I know,” Sombra has to stop herself and keep her pride in check. She’ll swallow indignation if it means keeping the situation in her control. 

It still hurts though as Sombra meets Widow’s expectant eyes. 

“My cards. I’m not going to show you all of them.”

Widow stares at her for a moment longer before shrugging and finishing off the last of her cigarette. Her eyes slide shut, opening again sharper, brighter, and a touch colder. Her time is running short. 

“I might tell you one day.”

“You’re lying again.”

“You don’t know that.” 

Sombra drags her fingertips up Widow’s arms, the soft glow of them leave behind a path of tingling nerves. Up to the side of Widow’s face where her palm hums against cool skin. Data streams from the implants hidden far below and into the network of Sombra’s hardlight ‘enhancements’. 

Content when she shouldn’t be, calm when there is a war nearly a decade old still raging in the center of her mind. A disconnect, a head that refuses to turn and allow Widow to see within herself. 

Her doing.

Sombra could wake her up and pull her out of her tranquil state.

But there is peace to be found in her sleep.

“Don’t worry about it, Amelie.” 

One day, perhaps, but Sombra won’t be able to do it alone. 


	4. Madness to Drive Her Mad

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And cue the struggling of both me and Fareeha. It's a bit hard trying see how she would react and how Talon would go about it, but i think i got it? Fareeha is strong, physically and mentally, she's not going down without a fight.

Bleeding in the brain, a clot or a piece of shrapnel they missed on their first pass. The story changes with every retelling; always something Fareeha doesn’t understand and does not believe.

“These nodes will sit on your forehead and help us monitor your brain in case of further complications.”

“No.”

“They’re only temporary.”

“No.”

“Fareeha, as much as we want to respect your boundaries, this is a matter of your health-”

“Then  _ let me die _ .”

….

Tired

“You are valued, you are wanted, needed, and very important to me, to all of us here. You have a place here, now, and we hope that you’ll see that one day.”

The skin on the left side of her forehead tugs and pinches, slight pinpricks barely registering through the haze of anesthesia that have been paused momentarily. Anger comes first, followed by a bitter feeling akin to betrayal but Fareeha has expected this after all; ‘betrayal’ infers she believed otherwise. And yet the feeling stays. The smugness of being correct that she hoped would never come and the dread to know that…

That she will fight.

_ Keep fighting _

Fareeha tries to reach up to stop them, for a moment forgetting and regretting not taking their offer days ago. 

One at the shoulder, one mid bicep.

Everything is strapped down anyways, her vision still blocked by a sheet of turquoise plastic, yet she remembers conversing with the doctor face to face moments ago. She remembers gentle eyes, a gentle voice. Yes?

Does she actually remember?

The calmness comes back, the darkness like hands encroaching, tightening around her throat.

Why did they wake her up in the first place?

 

* * *

The sun is already beginning to stream in when Widow’s eyes crack open. Sombra’s warm, humming arms are wrapped around her waist and the bitter taste of tobacco lays stagnant on her tongue.

They’re late.

She frowns, refusing to acknowledge the empty longing seated back in her chest. 

 

* * *

Fareeha is conscious. Yes? Perhaps. Awake, vision coming back into focus but the world is different from the last time she remembers leaving it. No. Same hospital room, same situation of waking bleary eyed and confused. 

At first she thinks it’s her imagination and paranoia that brings forth a grainy texture to the walls she sees. Every shift of her gaze leaping between something nearby and something across the way is followed by the same hazy film and then a whir before her eyesight sharpens. It doesn’t bother her, oddly enough, she feels as if it should, but instead it’s a sort of curiosity, an ‘oh, that’s new’. 

She looks down at her hand, a whir then focus; then across-

Wait

Her hand

And there is the panic that explodes like a match to gunpowder she did not know lay dormant in her chest, hungry for a flame. It’s not heat but frigid cold that races across her skin, trembling hands.

_ Hands _

Fareeha screams. 

The door bursts open, first a nurse and then doctor Faustus.

Faustus? Faustus, who?

The doctor with the kind eyes ever encouraging. His name.

It registers as wrong, so wrong for all this time Fareeha has fought against all of this. To wake up and find herself thinking these things. Leather straps hold her arms fast to the railing of her hospital bed. Futile, maybe, but she struggles because that’s all her mind is telling her to do. 

Struggle against them

Fight

Resist.

And so she listens.

“Fareeha-” Faustus’ words are cut short, his head snapping back with the same sound the leather straps make as they too snap. 

One after another, not futile, Fareeha is barely conscious of the strength her arms wield as she tears them from their bonds. The nurses rush forward to pull the doctor’s unconscious form to the safety of the hallway. 

Panic gives way to fury, easier to be angry than confused and Fareeha lashes out not trying to seek answers but satisfaction. She remembers telling them no, and yet half of her hoped that they would still entertain her requests.  Against her wishes, they will regret trying to make her into something she refuses to be.

The restraints on her legs fall to the same fate as the ones that once bound her arms. Now free, she swings her legs over the edge of the bed.

The new found strength is welcome, but Fareeha quickly realizes that the control is not there. Too much force and her arms jerk and flail with every motion. Her elbow catches another nurse in the chest, sending them skidding across the room and crashing loudly into the machinery against the wall. 

This anger

Familiar, something Fareeha learned to keep locked up in the recesses of her mind until a proper time to release it.

Now free

Insulted

It claims to want to protect her.

But all it does is demand blood.

It’s not  _ her.  _ This  _ rage _ is not her. 

And yet she cannot deny the gleeful satisfaction when she slams another doctor to the ground by their throat. 

“Amari, stand down or we will use force.” Armed soldier, they see her as a threat now.

Good.

The words don’t register, they don’t matter right now when it’s their tone that promises pain, threatening violence and Fareeha Amari will protect. With a guttural yell, Fareeha pushes herself off the floor, her uncoordinated stumbling ironically lets her duck and weave the soldier’s shots. Their aim is hasty and haphazard, it takes no time for Fareeha to close the distance between them. She sees the fear in their eyes.

Even better.

The first one falls, her rifle a mangled mess of metal crushed inside her hands; a feat that surprises them as well as Fareeha. There is no concept of pulling her punches as she sends a swift strike to her neck when she is actually aiming for her chest, and a sickening crack rings out before she collapses onto the floor. 

Sudden pain blossoms on the side Fareeha’s ribs, it stings more than hurts and she glances down expecting to see blood. Nothing stains her hospital gown, rubber bullets.

Their mistake, her fortune.

Fareeha can only take one step towards the second frightened soldier before her head reels back with a pounding so loud, nausea drumming, forcing her to retch up sour bile. Her senses come back, trickling in. First the smell of acid, then control and the humming at the connection points of her new limbs. 

The fog of anger lifts.

The guilt settles in when she sees the blank stare of the soldier she just struck down. 

Her hands and knees steady her on the floor for only a moment before they too give out. Onto her side, the world spins, feet form a circle around her. No one is brave enough to step forward. 

Darkness comes back, hands.

And then peace. 

 

* * *

“Do you remember what happened?” 

“I defended myself.”

“You attacked nurses and doctors, they were trying to help you.”

“Same object, different viewing lens.”

“Fareeha.”

“ _ Doctor _ .”

Not Faustus, no names, no faces. They are just brainwashed machines trying to make her into one of them. 

He sits in his chair, Fareeha strapped with metal cuffs to her bed. The air is colder, not by temperature but by temperament. Fareeha holds his gaze until it’s Faustus that shifts uncomfortably in his seat. 

New nodes have been installed along the synthetic skin of her arms. ‘Monitors’ they claim, ‘failsafes’ she knows better, knows that they’re smarter than this.

Anger well earned, their lies have been proven. They brush off her sudden debilitating light headedness, chalking it up to her abrupt awakening. No excuses, the memory of her conversation with the doctor.

_ “These nodes will sit on your forehead and help us monitor your brain in case of further complications.” _

_ “Okay” _

No

_ “They’re only temporary.” _

_ “I understand” _

She does, but-

_ “Fareeha, we want to respect your boundaries.” _

_ “You have my consent, doctor.” _

That’s not what happened. Her head is pounding again, whatever is on the left side of her forehead feels as if it’s burning, an itch and she wants to tear them out. 

The fight finally begins.

“Your recovery will be easier if you just trust us.” 

“Why should I?” Fareeha leans forward, gritting her teeth to hide the fact that she can barely even make out the doctor’s face. She goes until the metal cuffs demand her to stop, groaning at the strain. She wonders if she could break these if she tried. 

Faustus stands his ground, unflinching at her petty attempt of intimidation. Bravery or foolishness, Fareeha sometimes can’t tell the difference herself. 

“All we’ve done is provide for you. Do you know how much you are costing-”

“Then let me go or let me die,  _ doctor _ .” 

It is the first time since Fareeha’s capture a little over a month ago that she has mentioned her release and the prospect of what comes after her recovery. Always irrelevant, an impossible notion that maybe Talon would let her leave with her free will still intact. Faustus narrows his eyes, tight lipped and unreadable. 

Gone is the gentle in his eyes.

What an actor.

Fareeha clicks her tongue and leans back into her bed. She doesn’t cry, not now in front of her enemy that has yet to earn her respect. Though she feels the dreadful emotion lodging itself into the walls of her throat, feel it nipping away at her defenses. She doesn’t need to hear a verbal answer when the silence is already screaming it so loudly. 

Still a prisoner.

Perhaps not for long.

“Leave.”

“Fareeha-”

Fareeha snaps her eyes back to Faustus, eyes hot and burning with the same whiring and then focus, the phenomenon strikes so much fear into her heart. 

“You don’t need my cooperation when you can just take it from me. I’m not going to make this easier for you or your disgraceful organization. You better pray that whatever you have done to me holds,  _ Faustus _ .” 

The masks are off, the look of annoyance stark on his face. He grunts, displeased, and stands staring down at her for a moment. Hard and unsympathetic.

“We will be moving forward with your new physical therapy tomorrow.”

No assurance, his word sounds as if they are law. What a sudden contrast that sends Fareeha into a displaced moment of glee. A challenge, good. 

He leave.

Alone.

And yes, very alone.

Her options are nill, what is done is done. New arms, something implanted in her head. Fareeha needs to hold fast and make sure her thoughts are her own.

Fearful, doubtful, but hopeful

She will fight

She will resist

She will make it out of this alive. 

 

* * *

Faustus

His name is not Faustus, he does not have a name. Just a man who wants to control her and make her into a monster.

Make her whole

No

No

No

Fareeha tries again with a different train of thought.

The room she is in. A jail cell-

A hospital room, something to bring comfort in knowing there are people watching over her. She doesn’t want their help, but they’ll be the ones to save her from death. 

Try again.

She knows there has been more doctored thoughts that have slipped by right underneath her nose.

It makes her paranoid, questioning everything that comes to mind.

Is the room actually cold, are the sheets really off white, did she eat this morning or puke out bitter bile?

Trivial things, but their implications are deadly. 

Her arms are still strapped down after all this time (how much time?), a prisoner awaiting the grace of a caregiver to feed her. (she doesn’t want to think of it as grace) As if she is still armless, still helpless. 

At first, Fareeha didn’t trust Talon. Now neither of them trust each other. 

She can’t remember ever asking about her arms, she just knows the voice reciting information about them.

Graphene tubes that expand and contract just as real muscles do, can be improved through exercise the same way. Fueled by nanites suspended in her bloodstream. To think; there is actual blood pumping through these false arms of hers. When it’s quiet and Fareeha listens closely, she can feel the third  _ thump _ in her chest that follows the beating of her heart and it’s rhythm that runs faster than a normal human heart would. She doesn’t know what it means. 

The surface of her arms give under the pressure of the metal cuffs keeping her locked to the railing of her bed, indentations as if they are flesh. Something in her mind tells her what the hands are feeling, but she doesn’t  _ feel _ them.

Odd to say the least. 

Fareeha wraps her fingers around the railing and squeezes, her breath easing to a pause as she feels the metal creak under her grip. A spark of hope, her arms are strong, perhaps strong enough to-

“Miss Amari?”

She jumps at the sudden voice and rapping at the door, the startled jerking of her arms is enough to create a tiny dent in the railing.  _ Relax _ , she thinks to herself, it’s difficult but Fareeha forces her fingers to uncurl and lay still.

“Come in.” 

The door is pushed open and in steps a nurse, a familiar face that brings ease to Fareeha’s mind. Complacent, false.

Her teeth grit together, another blip, another catch.

Stay angry, stay wary

She fights the calmness that creeps into her mind, a sense of belonging, of home and comfort of human contact. It’s fake, she knows it to be, but it’s been so long since she’s been granted a moment of repose. Forced relaxation that Fareeha feels guilty for not taking advantage of. 

It’s not her guilt she feels. 

She doesn’t even realize that the nurse is unlocking the cuffs of her right arm.

Fareeha stares, Robin stares back.

Robin, a name, a splinter in her hand that stings each time she grasps for something. But…

But?

Confusion. 

The train of thought lost. 

In its place, just anger knowing what is happening to her but she is helpless to stop it.  

Robin’s face is relaxed with a small smile on her lips as she speaks. Gentle words in soft tones as her wraps Fareeha’s stiff fingers around the handle of a plastic spoon. Something akin to awe begins to worm its way into Fareeha’s chest. 

She wants to fight back

She wants to cooperate

The spoon trembles and shakes and Fareeha can feel her heart beating with it’s disgusting triple beats, stampeding like a racehorse down the track. Robin guides her hand down, helping her scoop up some rice. 

A few grains fall.

But

It makes it to Fareeha’s mouth. The first taste of independence. Petty, yes, but the elation that fills her almost brings tears of joy to her eyes. 

Fareeha is smiling. Robin is smiling with her. 

 

* * *

With darkness comes rage.

Each night, some worse than the others, all the same.

In the haze of sleep, Fareeha can’t tell whether or not she is still dreaming, would she even trust her own judgement claiming she is dreaming or awake? Her body is numb but Fareeha can feel her vocal cords vibrating with a shrill cry.

Is it her who’s screaming? It must be, but no sound. 

Tugging then groaning, it halts as far as it will let her go and holds her there. The cuffs hold this time but the railing does not fair as well. In the murky blackness she can see the outline of her arms cast in the red light accents interlaced between graphene tubes. The glowing “T” for Talon stamped; one at her shoulder, the other at her forearm.

Bile rises up, disgust but she can’t look away.

A monster, a machine not much different from what her mother died protecting the world against. 

She’s dead because of these people.

New anger

Yet new freedom, no longer bearing the weight of chasing after her mother’s praise. 

Guilt

And then it’s all swept away in a surge of rage, rage, drowning and unbridled.

The thoughts don’t stay long enough for her to make sense of them. 

Not her own, this is not her and yet she must sit in her cage as the waters rise. Choking and forcing her to sputter with her head barely above the surface until it is taken under.

Until she is forced to breathe it in and feel this fury fill her lungs.

Darkness, like hands caressing.

And this rage becomes her.

 

* * *

Another bed, stronger railings, more sedatives to help her make it through the night.

She getting tired of waking up like this.

 

* * *

It is the first time Fareeha realizes she’s looking at herself in a mirror. 

The first time since...since her capture. They don’t tell her how long it has been. While she wants to ask Ares to watch the news and regain her bearings, it feels as if Fareeha cannot bring herself to say the words. The moment the thought comes up, it is dashed away, then frustration.

Aware of the thoughts she had, watching through glass but unable to fix anything. 

She will resist

She will fight

She will-

Fareeha stops.

Again, eyes locked on the reflection in the small bathroom mirror.

What trust they put into her. Not into Fareeha, but into the nodes that sit upon her forehead. 

She turns her head to the side, her fingers coming up to run along the scar on her scalp hidden in the part of her hair. It has to be periodically shaven, logically; the hair is still short and stubbly, no more than a week or two in length. She feels as if it has been longer. 

Or perhaps it’s only been a week or two since the surgery. 

Fareeha doesn’t know and she doesn’t trust herself to sense of time passing. 

They tell her the therapy is going well, but she can never remember it happening.

The progress she has made invisible except for the results.

She holds her arms out in front of her.

The whirring of her eyes before they shift into focus.

Her hands are steady.

Her hands are strong

Her hands are  _ hers. _

_ No _

An itching beneath the skin, the only emotion she knows to be her own is this fury she recognizes, accustomed to carrying her entire life. Something she had to keep bottled up because her aunt would have none of it, her mother was never home, the only times it came out to play was when the children at school would bully her for her mother’s involvement in Overwatch.

She saw her mother as a hero.

They she her mother as a monster.

Same object, different viewing lens.

Fareeha slams her palms onto the steel counter, not even full force but they leave shallow divots all the same. The itching comes back and demands her full attention. 

Tears that she wants to let fall; pitiful and weak. Fareeha is not weak.

No

Fight

Fareeha remembers; crying does not equate to weakness, it is a sign of humanity and humility. 

A lesson Ana Amari had taught her.

Ana Amari is dead. 

She wants to think otherwise, it’s impossible. No, not impossible, fight, she will resist. 

Fareeha stumbles back from the mirror, suddenly startled by the cold eyes that stare back at her. They glow a eerie red that widen and narrow before settling after her vision focuses. Are they camera’s? Would Fareeha find wires attached to her eyes if she were to dig them out?

Her heart pounds; one, two, three. 

Comply.

It will be easier if she cooperates. 

Madness to drive her mad.

They trust her to use the restroom, they’ve come so far. The length of her hair says two weeks, but the weariness in her bones says a life time. How much times has passed?

The thoughts comes and go like the tide, ebbing away at her mind and wetting her palette but never staying long enough to drown her. The anger is there, simmering just below, something keeps it in check.

Fareeha doesn’t feel the need to use the restroom, isn’t quite sure whether or not she has already gone or if this was some sort of ploy she made to get her away from her ‘caregivers’. Away from prying eyes yet she doesn’t doubt that she is still being watched even in here.

A window.

She finds herself standing before it when moments ago she was staring into the mirror. It’s small but enough to give her a view of the outside world. Fareeha stands tall, stands proud dressed in proper clothing; a pair of shorts, a decent t-shirt. Where was she before she came to be in this bathroom? 

If only it would all become clear, or at least fade away she Fareeha was no longer bothered by the gnawing guilt at the back of her mind. 

Ah yes, the world outside.

Day time

Noon perhaps, bright and sunny outside with a breeze by the looks of how the trees in the distance sway. A forest of some sort. She recalls the smell of it, light and dry. Summer. 

It’s beautiful.

She can’t remember ever being outside the confines of a room.

But the memory is there, her ugly prosthetics digging in the soil with childish satisfaction. 

It is home

No

Intrusive thoughts that come over and over again wearing her down, trying to pass as her own. Harder to tell apart.

_ Mind, values, morals unaltered; only the whole story. _

False!

She could leap, punch through the glass and fall down the countless stories to end it all. Perhaps death would be better to spare her future victims from her wrath. And then she remembers blood, she has already killed.

When

Where

Who

Fareeha is a small child that still yearns for the attention and approval of an absent mother. A dead mother. 

It hurts

She can’t stop thinking about it.

It

It

It

It stops, Fareeha’s fingers are grasped around one of the nodes embedded into her forehead. 

She stands

Steady

Stoic

Then smiling

Seeing herself in the mirror, a maniac grin splitting her face as she leans into close to her reflection. The mad glint in her eyes that flash before they finally refocus.

She smiles even wider.

It’s quiet.

Realization.

“Is that what you are?” Fareeha whispers and gets what she expects as a thought in her mind.

It calls her crazy;  _ it _ . A partition, a distance, the ability to distinguish  _ it _ from  _ Fareeha _ . It tells her to get professional help, a mental disorder that can be treated with therapy, love, and patience. Good advice, but Fareeha has been trained.

A trap; for the only doctors here are the enemy and there is no one, not even herself, that she can trust. 

A stand off.

Logically, no, Fareeha understands this but it feels like one all the same. It urges her to let go, finish her business and return to training.

Ah, training, information.

Now the rules begin to surface, now a way to get the memories and knowledge she seeks about her past. A mother who left her for dead on the battlefield, swept up in the duties of Overwatch. The organization that took her in, gave Fareeha “Pharah” Amari a purpose and the training she yearned for.

Lies

So the game is not as clear as Fareeha thought it to be. 

Still, learning.

These memories are not her own.

And it realizes its mistake.

The door slams open, the sound of boots and the metallic click of a gun. Pain sears through her back, electricity coursing along every nerve and Fareeha falters.

It demands her to stop and surrender to them.

They threaten and Fareeha will protect.

Her knees give out, only propped up by a single arm. She stares into her reflection.

Still smiling

And she locks eyes with herself.

And tears the implant out.

And her world becomes static.


End file.
